


To Whom It May Concern

by sidewinder



Category: Foo Fighters, The Police (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dreamsharing, Drug Abuse, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Recreational Drug Use, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 01:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder
Summary: Taylor Hawkins always knew that his soulmate was a famous rock drummer. But what was it going to take to find out which one?





	1. November 1978

**Author's Note:**

> This is posted with my deepest thanks to [beatvegan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatvegan) for beta-reading and being my all-around cheering squad to get this story done!
> 
> Title and opening lyrics are from [To Whom It May Concern](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0GTdbffrNo) by The Civil Wars—a song which pretty well sets the tone for what follows.

_I missed you_

_But I haven't met you_

_Oh but I want to_

_How I do..._

* * *

**_Laguna Beach, California_ **

 

Oliver Taylor Hawkins had dreamed of being a drummer for as long as he could remember. Since his earliest memories, his dreams had been full of music and cheering crowds—but especially full of the pounding, joyful rhythm of the drums.

He’d taken to banging on pots and pans around the house until his parents had bought him his first toy drum. Later, he’d graduated to a child-size drum kit. The drums had delighted him, and he had shown a surprising innate talent for the instrument.

His father, not thrilled with all the noise, had hoped it would only be a phase.

He was starting elementary school when he began to understand what his dreams might mean. He’d heard talk about “soulmates” from his parents, and in the story books and fairy tales they read to him, but he didn’t really understand. Obviously his mom and dad loved each other very, very much and were very, very happy together. He’d figured that was all it was about: two people in love, making a family together. But then his mom explained to him that every person had that one special someone out there, that one soul they were destined, one day—one lifetime, if not this one—to meet. And that person could connect to you through your dreams.

“Sometimes dreams are our mind’s own imagination while we sleep,” she told him as she tucked him into bed that night. “But other times those dreams are glimpses into our soulmate’s world, meant to help us find them someday. You see, sometimes, when you dream, what you’re seeing is the world through your soulmate’s eyes. Where they are. What they’re feeling at that moment, what they do for a living, or what they like to do for fun.”

“So, that means...my soulmate is a drummer. Like me!” he shouted, ready to pounce out of bed and get back to his kit. (Going to bed was _no_ fun, except for when he had those dreams.)

“Maybe, but slow down, my love.” She smiled and kissed him on the forehead. “You’ll know better in time, and you’ve got lots of that ahead of you to figure things out. For now, you play, and you learn, and you discover what _you_ love the most. Wait a little while before planning out your life with someone else, all right?”

He didn’t like waiting. What six year old did?

But still, he knew his mom was right. He had other things to focus on for now, like riding his bike with his friends Mikey and Ray from down the street and watching _Battle of the Planets_ every Saturday morning with his big brother. He played his drums whenever he could, while he let those dreams of music carry him to faraway places in the night.

* * *

**_Somewhere in Ohio_ **

 

Stewart Copeland was not in a good mood. And for once it wasn’t Sting’s fault, although he was enjoying taking out his misery on his bandmate.

Kim Turner, their one-man support crew and roadie extraordinaire, shot a fuming glance over his shoulder. “Oi! You two cool it back there or else I’m gonna park this wagon and knock some fucking sense into the both of you!” A boot thrown from the back seat had gone flying and thunked Kim in the back of the head, nearly leading them to swerve across several lanes and into an oncoming semi.

“Sorry,” Stewart said, straightening himself out.

“Sorry,” Sting echoed.

“Wankers, both of you,” Andy grumbled from the front seat next to Kim. “Some of us are attempting to sleep and you two are carrying on like a pair of real cunts. Going to get us all killed.”

“Funny, I thought your playing in front of that audience tonight killed us already,” Stewart replied.

“What audience?” Sting added dryly. They all fell into defeated silence, for there was no argument to be had there.

“What _is_ your problem tonight, anyway?” Sting asked Stewart, after tempers had cooled. It was the middle of the night and they were headed to their next gig in some new town, some new city in these vast open wastelands of middle America. Andy had returned to his slumbers and was snoring away, while Kim hummed along to the twangy country music playing low on the static-filled AM radio. “You’ve been in a mood all day.”

“Sorry,” Stewart apologized, this time to Sting, this time actually sort of meaning it. “Just something I’ve figured out recently that I’m not particularly...enthusiastic about.”

“What’s that, luv?”

Stewart sighed, shifting in his seat so he could prop his back against the door, stretch his long legs out into Sting’s side. “I think my soulmate’s a fucking kid,” he said, speaking out loud about it for the first time to anyone.

Sting raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

“Dreams I’ve been having, here and there, finally starting to come together. Things that I know aren’t based on my life but are consistent enough to feel like someone else’s.” The repeated visions of the same house he’d never been in. School classes with teachers whom he didn’t remember. Playing with friends who weren’t his friends from childhood—he’d spent _those_ formative years in Beirut, not some suburban American town. “They’re all from the perspective of a little kid. Like, barely learning basic maths and reading. Looking up at everyone like this—” Stewart gazed up at the roof of the car, “—instead of down as I usually do.”

Sting snickered at that and patted Stewart on the shoulder. “Given you often seem to have the emotional maturity of a toddler, Stewart, it sounds like a perfect match to me.”

Stewart kicked Sting in the shin for that. “Fuck you, Sting. This isn’t a joke.” Growing up and all through his teenage years, Stewart had long wondered when his soulmate would show up in his dreams. His friends, his siblings, they’d all had stories to share, clues to try to piece together.

Meanwhile, Stewart? Oh, he’d make up a few wild tales, here and there, to try to fit in and not feel so left out.

To not feel so very much...alone in his own head.

But none of his dreams ever seemed to connect or resonate in that way, in a manner that made any kind of sense as seeing the world through another’s eyes.

He’d wondered for years, then, if it wasn’t all bullshit. Why not simply love who you wanted to love, fate and supposed destiny be damned? Plenty of people married, had kids, and lived their lives in perfect contentment without ever finding their supposed “soulmate”. His parents, for one very good example. They had met during World War II—his father an American operative, his mother a British archeologist-turned-spy. Both had dreamed of their soulmates perishing during the war, as so many were lost during those years. They had found comfort and love in each other instead and raised a family of four children, each one driven and talented in their own unique way. All very much content with their family, as weird and wonderful as it could be.

And Stewart loved Sonja, back home in London, though they’d never had any dreams of each other before crossing paths. More than anyone else he’d ever met, she embraced the idea of free love and living for and in the moment. That was one of the things he’d found especially intoxicating and compelling about her.

Sure, they said if you didn’t meet your soulmate in this lifetime, you’d get another chance, another time around. That you’d keep coming back, round and round, souls reincarnating until fate and circumstances aligned to connect two halves as one. But Stewart wasn’t sure how much he believed that. There was no way to know for certain, was there? Once you were dead in this lifetime, you were dead—soulmate or not. Everything else was pure speculation codified into religion and dogma.

What was certain, though, were these dreams he’d only started having as he’d entered his mid-twenties. The visions and feelings of being a child again, but not the childhood he remembered. It had been disconcerting, at first. And now those dreams were leaving him pissed off.

 _If this person—my so-called “soulmate”—is a kid now, what kind of relationship are we ever supposed to have?_ The idea was frankly off-putting to him. In most countries soulmates weren’t allowed to enter into any kind of relationship, let alone register their bond, until both parties were over a certain age. And that was rightly so, as there were religions, cults and cultures which otherwise would try to brainwash or groom their young, even allow childhood bonding, to keep them from leaving the fold.

Stewart could be forty years old before his soulmate was of age, if he was correct about his dream visions...and _if_ they even ever found each other. At that point, he might be twice the age of this person who was his supposed preordained match.

So maybe it would be better, in this lifetime, if that never happened. If there was a next time around, perhaps they’d come into it more aligned than now.

“I’d try not to worry about it,” Sting said, drawing Stewart out of his brooding thoughts. “Enjoy this ride we’re on. Tonight we bombed but in the larger cities here, we’re getting big enough that the birds are throwing themselves at us. We’re punk enough for America to be cool and different. Not scary like the real punks back home. Might not be so much fun once you’ve got a soulmate at home waiting for you.”

“That hasn’t stopped Andy yet.”

“Yes, well, Andrew is a freak of nature.”

They shared a chuckle over that. Tempers diffused, Sting moved to lie in against Stewart, stretching his own legs out the best he could.

 _Enjoy the ride...in a shitty rented station wagon,_ Stewart mused. But it wasn’t so bad with Sting here. And he had plans for so much more for this band— _his_ band—and a strong feeling it would all come together, soon. He might have joined Sonja’s group when they were on their way down, but this one he was going to take all the way to the top.

He didn’t need a soulmate to make that dream come true. All he needed was a superstar in the making, like the one resting here beside him.

 


	2. September 1982

**_Laguna Beach, California_ **

 

Taylor was ten years old and no one called him Oliver any longer—except his parents when they were mad, or his teachers when he got in trouble.

And Taylor had just experienced the best night of his life. He was certain nothing could or would ever top it. At least, not until the day he came face to face with and finally met his soulmate.

Even _that_ might not compare.

He’d been to his very first rock concert. Queen, his absolute favorite band in the universe, playing at The Forum on one of the last dates of their U.S. Tour. He’d been begging to go since he’d seen the ad for it in his sister Heather’s _Rolling Stone_ magazine, months ago. She wanted to go, too, but she was old enough to drive to the show on her own and had saved up money from babysitting for her ticket.

Taylor promised his parents he’d do extra chores around the house if they let him go with her. He’d clean his room without having to be told. Only practice his drums _after_ he did his homework. Even forego his allowance through the end of this year if his parents would buy him a ticket to the show.

They hadn’t needed that much cajoling. In fact his sister had been the one protesting, not at all enthusiastic about bringing baby brother along. His mom and dad knew how much music meant to him and encouraged his interests (mom especially), provided he didn’t completely lose track of everything else. And, provided he didn’t become too fixated on believing every rock drummer he became fixated on had to be his soulmate.

That last part was going to be really, really hard after tonight. For he was now one hundred percent certain it was Roger Taylor of Queen, and _no one_ was going to convince him otherwise.

“Did you have a good time?” his mother asked them once they got home that night.

“It was pretty cool,” Heather said. “Too much new music, though. I wanted to hear more of the old stuff.”

“It was the _best_!” Taylor ran over to his mother to show her the program book he bought with the extra money she’d given him. He’d also gotten a Queen poster which was going up on his wall as soon as he could move his other posters around to make room for it.

“Well, I’ll want to hear all about the show and I’m sure your father will too. But not tonight, because tomorrow is a school day,” his mom said. “For _both_ of you. So off to bed, and no saying you’re sick tomorrow morning and begging to stay home. Not if you want dad to say okay to any more rock concerts on a weeknight.”

“Okay,” Heather said with Taylor echoing her. As if he was going to be able to sleep tonight with all the excitement of this experience still rushing through him.

It _had_ been amazing, more than he’d imagined it could be. The music. The lights and special effects! The roaring excitement of the crowd, of so many people clapping and dancing along with these songs he knew and loved as much as anyone else. Freddie had sounded exactly like he did on those albums, even better as he got the audience to sing back and forth with him. Brian’s guitar had soared above it all, and he could still feel the throbbing of the bass guitar and drums through his entire body.

It had been completely incredible, yet had also solidified the feelings Taylor knew from his dreams. It felt _familiar,_ even having never been to a large rock concert before. Even if his perspective, from the crowd, was different from the one he knew in his dreams, from behind a drum kit.

It frustrated him that he could never remember enough specific details after he woke up to be sure who he was connected to, which band his soulmate was in. While he dreamed the music was crystal clear, the faces of his bandmates like photographs. But once he opened his eyes it all became hazy. Muddled. Just out of reach, like when you knew the word for something but couldn’t think of it when needed.

The things he _would_ remember with clarity from his dreams seemed so unimportant, not helpful at all. A blue mug from Japan that was a favorite for coffee (yuck). Going to the dentist for a filling (double yuck). Playing arcade games with a kid...was it his soulmate’s kid (which would be _weird_ ), or someone else’s? That, he couldn’t tell.

Details in his dreams hazy or not, he knew what he now believed in his heart. And as soon as he was old enough, he was going to start his own band. They’d become famous, like Queen. When that happened, Roger would recognize him, too. They’d finally meet and everything would be perfect. They could go on tour together, both of their bands, playing the drums and spending their lives making music.

Taylor knew it would happen. Someday. But for now he had to console himself with wishful thinking and his dreams, until he could to do anything to make them into his reality.

* * *

**_London, England_ **

 

“So, Stewart, the tour is over—”

“Yay!”

“—ha, ha. I take it that means you’re pleased to be back home in London again.”

“Pleased beyond your wildest imagination. Now, along with some necessary downtime to make sure our family members haven’t forgotten who we are, we’ve all got some _real_ work to get on with.”

“You mean, the next Police album?”

“Mmm, not for the next few months. We’re each of us bubbling up with our own ideas to explore for a while. The Police can rest in repose until the end of this year, then we’ll see about firing the machinery back up again. But right now I’m excited about my movie. Isn’t that what you’re here to interrogate me about today?”

“Yes, yes, of course, Stewart. Of course.” The reporter from _NME_ appeared momentarily chastised—or so Stewart hoped. The bookish young man fumbled with his notepad and then continued, “Tell me more about that, please. How you became interested in the subject, and in film-making in general.”

With that opening, Stewart chatted on for the next hour or so, doing his best to stay on track every time the reporter tried to steer the conversation back to the “P”-word. Because it had been a long tour, and one that had felt increasingly interminable in its final months given the way tensions had been brewing within. Stewart wanted a _few_ months, if possible, without every conversation he had needing to revolve around the band.

Andy had an album coming out with Robert Fripp. It was a small side project but one that excited the guitarist nevertheless. Stewart was getting ready for a few test screenings of the documentary he’d put together on the continuing punk scene in England. And Sting was headed to the much bigger screen, with his starring role in an odd film where he played either an angel or the devil himself.

It was a role that suited good ol’ Gordo to a T, Stewart thought, though he’d held his tongue about commenting as much. Especially to said bass player.

Sting was even more distracted these days since his soulmate, Trudie, had entered his life. That had happened earlier in the year, right after the birth of his second child with wife Frances. The timing hadn’t made things easy on anyone involved, including his bandmates given the way the media had been all over them for reactions.

The press loved this kind of scandal. They ate it up for breakfast, regurgitated it for lunch, and salivated over the leftovers for dinner. First the teenage girls and boys at home cried over having their dreams shattered that another heartthrob was not going to be their one true love, _their_ soulmate. Then the vultures would descend and speculate on what would happen next: would Sting leave his wife and children behind to start a new family with his soulmate? Would they try to find some way to create a larger, merged family together?

Such scenarios played out on a smaller scale around the world daily. Many struggled with what to do if they’d already built a life and family with someone, only to find another intruding upon their heart. Often there were no easy answers. Some maintained a strictly platonic relationship with their soulmate...or attempted as much. Sting had no such intentions. From their first meeting, the sexual intensity between himself and Trudie had been enough to light a house on fire.

Frances might have been willing to share her husband with nameless, anonymous groupies on the road. Even now and then with Stewart. But she wasn’t willing to stick around now when it was so clear Sting belonged to another, heart _and_ soul.

If anything, the whole affair confirmed Stewart’s belief that he’d be better off never meeting his supposed soulmate. Who knew what havoc that could bring to his personal life as it stood today? Sonja was likewise relaxed about his road exploits as she’d had her own share of adventures during her years in Curved Air. Theirs was a happy union and he hoped to keep it that way for a good long time to come.

The interview wrapped up and, after a few photos around his home and studio, Stewart was able to shoo the young reporter out and away.

 _Home at last—home and alone,_ he thought with a contented sigh _._ This place was his sanctuary, his safe house away from it all and the pressures of increasing stardom. Though he was beginning to think Sonja was right that they should consider a bigger home in the countryside, if they were going to consider adding another member to their family soon.

Working on putting _that_ plan in action was something he was definitely looking forward to, now that he had the time to relax. But Sonja was out for lunch with some friends and wouldn’t be home until later. He’d fix himself some lunch as well before getting to any work. He needed to put some background scoring together for his little movie, so he headed to the kitchen, humming and tapping a distracted rhythm against his leg.

“Another One Bites The Dust”, he realized and stopped himself. Damn thing had been stuck in his head all day and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out _why_. He wasn’t even that much of a Queen fan; oh, he appreciated the talent there, but they were on the bombastic side for his tastes. They embodied the kind of over-the-top rock excess he’d been railing against when he’d formed The Police.

Though now, as The Police climbed ever nearer to the top, Stewart wondered if they weren’t beginning to become the very thing he hated the most.

 


	3. March 1984

**_Thurston Jr. High School_ **

 

“Oliver. Oliver Taylor Hawkins!”

“Huh?” Taylor blinked and jerked upright to see the imposing figure of his seventh grade English teacher, Mrs. Mancini, looming over his desk. “Sorry, I...um. What was the question?”

“I asked if you to identify which of the sentences on the board is a compound sentence, and which is a complex sentence. But since you’re taking so long to consider your answer, why don’t you get up in front of the class and diagram _both_ for us.”

Taylor fought back a grimace as he got to his feet, hearing snickers from his friends in the back of the classroom. He managed to get through the grammatical task without any mistakes, much to the chagrin of his teacher. Clearly she’d wished to humiliate him further for his distraction.

 _I’m not as dumb as you think I am_. In fact he was surprisingly adept at English and language skills. He believed that to be in partial thanks to his soulmate. Whoever he was, he did an awful lot of reading when not concentrating on music and drumming.

Back in his seat, Taylor slumped down, trying to feign interest, trying not to let his sleepiness get the better of him again and make him the subject of his teacher’s further ire. A poke in his back while Mrs. Mancini turned to the board and his best friend Debbie slipped him a note.

 _Late night with your rock star boyfriend?_ the note asked.

Taylor drew a middle finger and slipped the note back to her.

She wasn’t wrong, though. He’d had one of those dreams the night before and it had been such a rush he’d been unable to get back to sleep. He’d been behind the drum kit before a crowd so huge, and so loud, he could barely hear anything—let alone the music his band was performing. But he’d powered along, driven by adrenaline, by speed, and by the raw excitement that was intoxicating.

He remembered very clearly those emotions and impressions from his dream vision. Part of him _knew_ he knew the songs he was playing. He _knew_ who those bandmates were. But as usual, once he awoke, the specifics faded until out of reach and recollection.

If only he could figure it out!

What he knew for sure, sadly, was that his soulmate _wasn’t_ Roger Taylor after all. That hope had been shattered the day he’d read in _Rolling Stone_ that the drummer had finally acknowledged his long-time girlfriend was his soulmate. The band’s management had insisted they keep it quiet for years because of the way some fans could react to the news. Fans like Taylor himself, he supposed, for he’d been crushed for weeks after learning the truth. But he still loved Queen; he wasn’t going to throw out all his records or anything dramatic like that. Now he just had to determine who his drummer soulmate was, if it wasn’t his number one pick.

While Mrs. Mancini droned on about predicates and modifiers, Taylor’s thoughts drifted back to his latest dream. It had been so full of energy and yet, there had been something different about this one. Something in his soulmate’s mind, emotions that had drifted through which lingered with Taylor today even as the specifics escaped him.

A certain feeling of sadness, and loss. Relief superimposed with regret. A certain weariness with fame while still fearful to lose it. These were complex feelings which were difficult for a twelve year old to understand, especially when he didn’t know who he could talk to about any of it.

Debbie, he could talk to about some things. About the latest album releases they looked forward to every Tuesday. About rudiments and other drumming exercises, since she was the only female percussionist in their school band. That was how they’d become friends in the first place. About his soulmate, to an extent, because she was as much of a music geek as he was. She tried to help him figure out his identity, because she thought it was cool and exciting.

But he couldn’t talk to her about some of the things he felt and saw through this other man’s eyes. Those adult emotions that escaped or bewildered him. Some of the more, well... _embarrassing_ and sexual stuff he was only beginning to become aware of and respond to.

He might talk to his older brother about those things soon, because he didn’t know who else he’d feel comfortable with. So long as he didn’t turn around and blab to mom and dad. God, that would be the worst. He knew they worried and talked (when they thought he wasn’t listening) about the effect of having a much older soulmate in his head.

“All right. Before the end of class today it’s time to introduce your next reading assignment, ‘The Old Man and The Sea’ by Ernest Hemingway. Please take out your reading guide for the semester and we’ll go over the questions everyone is to focus on with this book.”

Taylor reached for his Trapper Keeper, searching for the papers among his other schoolwork. The binder was covered in band stickers, all his favorites, mostly older rock bands and performers of the 70s. Led Zeppelin, Cheap Trick, David Bowie, Yes...and of course, his still beloved Queen.

So who _was_ it going to be? Taylor continued to wonder, and worry if he was ever going to figure it out.

* * *

**_Melbourne, Australia_ **

 

_“The last concert for two years, they say. Is it gonna be—”_

_“Well, two years, three years, six months...you know…”_

_“When did you—was it a joint decision by the three of you, or what?”_

_“Yeeeah, it was.”_

_“It just seems amazing—I mean, there’s always the old saying that you should always go out on a high, well I mean, there can’t be a bigger high—?”_

_“Yeah. Well, this is certainly a high!”_

Stewart sat alone in his limo, wrapped in a heavy blanket to keep warm as the sweat cooled and dried on his skin. All he wanted was to get to his hotel room as fast as possible to shower it off, soothe his aching limbs and relax.

It was over now, all over. The last concert of the _Synchronicity_ tour.

The last concert for The Police, period.

The three band members knew it. Their management and crew all knew it. The record company executives sitting on piles of cash in their plush offices knew it. But no one else was supposed to know.

For how long? Stewart had asked Miles, who’d avoided giving him a direct answer.

_“We’ve got to keep the mystique alive. Tell people it’s over now and that’s it, you can watch record sales shrivel up and die overnight. You all are at the pinnacle now; don’t slip and let the ground fall out beneath you.”_

And yet that’s exactly what had happened. They’d taken the band as far as it could go before it all fell apart under the weight of their collective egos, their increasingly disparate artistic drives. And now was the time to leave the safety of their nest, to soar on their own or come crashing back down to Earth.

Stewart knew this was how it had to be. They all did. And on one hand he was excited for whatever lay ahead for him. But on the other, he was grieving the loss of his band, as he’d always see it, even as Sting had tried to wrestle it away from him so thoroughly towards the end.

He sighed, leaned his head back against the soft leather cushions and closed his eyes. This was a far cry from where they’d started, hitting the road crammed together into one station wagon with all their equipment. Now they departed gigs each in their own separate luxury cars, a caravan of trucks and buses and handlers behind them.

The bigger it got, the further they’d grown apart.

Yet Sonja was waiting at home for him, and maybe now he could be a better father to the boys. Spend the time with them that they deserved. That was something to look forward to and embrace, wasn’t it?

A life a little more ordinary, like the one his soulmate seemed to enjoy. He’d almost, on some of these crazier nights of global stardom, found himself envying the easier days of The Kid (as he’d had come to think of him). Whoever he was, he was entering his teen years as best as Stewart could tell from his sporadic dreams. And those were some of those best years as far as he was concerned, when life was all about exploration and discovery without adult complications and doubts messing it up.

Stewart could tell The Kid was into music—drumming of all things. Stewart hoped wasn’t _just_ about copying him, but at the same time it gave him a strange sense of pride.

But those years, Stewart remembered them with fondness from his own youth. Listening and creating with spirit untainted by what the press or your own bandmates had to say, without having anyone telling you to be more commercial. Without asking, “Where’s the hit?” and sucking all the joy out of what had drawn him towards the musician’s life in the first place.

_If you do end up joining us musos some day, Kid, try not to lose that spirit._

Because Stewart now had to begin a path of rediscovering it all over again.

 


	4. October 1986

**_Laguna Beach, California_ **

 

“Your brother gets some good shit, Deb. And it’s way cool that he shares it with you.”

“Shares it?” Debbie laughed so hard she snorted. “Are you kidding? He’d kill me if he found out I took any of his weed. But he’s so stoned most of the time he doesn’t even notice if I swipe a bud here and there. He just rants that his dealer must’ve ripped him off.”

Taylor joined in her laughter as they passed the joint back and forth, blowing smoke out his bedroom window. They were supposed to be studying for their geometry exam tomorrow. But first, they were getting high and listening to some music before Taylor’s parents got home from work. The Smiths were on his turntable, Debbie’s pick.

“Did you hear the new album by the Talking Heads yet?” she asked.

“No, not yet.”

“It’s pretty cool. I can make you a copy. Or if you want to come over this weekend we can listen to it together after marching band practice.”

“Sounds good.” She was more into that kind of stuff than he was, but then, he’d been able to get her to listen to Rush. She’d had to admit that Neil Peart was a fucking god on the kit, even if she couldn’t stand Geddy Lee’s singing.

“What about the new Police album?” she asked, flipping through his latest record store finds and magazines. “I figured you’d have gotten that one right away.”

“I have all the songs on it already, except the new one. Which is just a sucky version of one of their old ones.”

“Oh. Bummer.”

“Yeah.” It was all keyboards and drum machines, overproduced and sluggish. All the things he wasn’t crazy about in so much of the music coming out these days.

The news of some new Police music had excited him, since he’d only gotten into the band kind of late, with _Synchronicity_. That was when he’d discovered Stewart Copeland’s drumming and then dove head-first into their back catalog of music. Then he’d tracked down all his solo stuff, too.

Stewart was unique, different from any other drummer he’d listened to before. He gave Taylor all kinds of new ideas of how much a drummer could add to a song to make it his own, how to bring not only power but personality to the kit.

Stewart was also drop dead gorgeous. Two posters of Copeland had joined the elite array of musicians decorating Taylor’s room, and he featured a starring role in plenty of this fourteen year old boy’s hormone-fueled fantasies.

Taylor had begun to wonder if could Stewart be _the_ one? His one? It seemed impossible, improbable, and Taylor didn’t want to get crushed by disappointment—again—if it didn’t turn out to be him. But something about Stewart’s playing hit him in a way he couldn’t describe, except it almost made his heart hurt. It made Taylor want to put on his headphones in bed at night and get lost in the music, to thrill over every whimsical high-hat riff, every heavy roll across the octobans.

“You have any more dreams about your rockstar lately?” Debbie asked, as if she could read his mind.

“Not lately. Not that I think I did, anyway.” Debbie teased him about his dreams, sometimes, since it was pretty common for teenagers to fantasize about being soulmates with their heartthrobs. Her cousin Laura had been certain for years she was Tom Cruise’s soulmate. Finally her parents convinced her she’d just watched “Top Gun” too many times.

“It’s weird,” Taylor said. “When I was in seventh and eighth grade the dreams were growing crazier, wilder... He was playing huge arenas with his band, that much I could tell. But lately...there’s not much of any of that. I hear music in my dreams, sometimes, but it’s not the same, somehow. And I haven’t been having concert dreams any longer.”

“Maybe he’s like, _really_ old and retired. That could help narrow down your search.”

“Maybe.” That didn’t rule Stewart out (although Stewart wasn’t “really old”), which gave Taylor some hope. The Police had only played a couple shows for the Amnesty Tour, earlier that year, but nothing before or since in quite a while.

“Still better than my dreams. I think I’m destined to marry a _total_ nerd.” Debbie slumped down on his bed with his copy of the newest _Musician_ magazine, flipping through the pages. “Most of my dreams are of her pulling all-nighters studying math and science shit that’s _way_ more advanced than anything we’ve had yet in school. And _bo-ring_. I think she’s already in college. Somewhere on the East Coast. Could be Boston but I’m not sure.”

“Boston has a lot of big schools for brainiacs. Harvard, M.I.T…”

“Like I said, a total nerd. Then again, there are plenty of good bands from Boston, too.”

“You planning on heading there after graduating to find her? Going to school there yourself?” Taylor asked.

“I don’t know if I _want_ to find her, if she’s that dull! But I don’t know. We’ll see. Wellesley might be nice, it’s an all-women school and not as nerdy. All I know for sure is I’m not sticking around here. What about you?”

“You know what I’m doing as soon as I’m out of school. Starting my band.” And his band would play some _real_ rock music. It wouldn’t be this synth-heavy pop, or that overly slick stuff pretending to be metal that was everywhere right now. Stuff like Bon Jovi; that wasn’t his style.

“And I’ll be able to brag that I knew you ‘back then’.”

“Damn straight you will.”

Debbie and Taylor were _just_ friends, not boyfriend and girlfriend, though sometimes it was easier to let their classmates believe as much. Debbie was only interested in girls and Taylor wasn’t quite sure what he wanted (other than his rockstar) except that the kids in his school and around here didn’t have it.

Having a same-sex soulmate—even simply knowing it, if you didn’t know _who_ yet—was less common than an opposite sex one. And while acceptance had come a long way in acknowledging such matches as just as real and meaningful, there could still prejudices to overcome. That was another thing which had brought them closer, as friends. They knew they could talk to each other about their soulmates without being teased or joked about over it.

Taylor heard a car pulling into the driveway. “Shit, mom’s home,” he warned Debbie. He snubbed out the last of the joint and rolled up its remnants in some aluminum foil, which he tossed to Debbie to throw in her backpack. He closed the window after blasting the room with some air freshener, and they turned the stereo down to a more parent-approved volume. Time to get to studying—or attempting as much. His head was now buzzing from the weed and his plans for future stardom were far more interesting to think about then math and homework.

He also was dying for something to eat.

* * *

**_New York City_ **

 

The air was rich with the aroma of pungent spices and grilled meats, making Stewart’s stomach grumble as he waited for his main course to arrive.

“Oh hey, before I forget,” Ian said. “Shriekback is playing this weekend, out on Long Island. They put on a great show if you haven’t seen them before. Want to come with?”

Stewart shrugged and snagged a piece of pita bread off his brother’s plate. “Sure, why not. I’m not leaving town until Monday.”

“Heading home?”

“I wish. Los Angeles, _then_ home. I think. Miles has my itinerary all planned out.”

“Ah ha. More promos for the ‘Best of’, I assume.”

“What else? I seem to be the only one of us three blond heads available to flog this dead horse to the media. Either that or this is my penance for ruining the recording sessions with my painkillers and broken collarbone.”

“Well you did a fine job of selling it this morning, from what I heard on the radio,” Ian said. “And if you ask me, way more than a couple bones were broken before y’all tried to record together again.”

“True, and thanks.”

The two were enjoying lunch at a busy little Middle Eastern joint on 9th Avenue, a place Ian had promised was fantastic. He had a knack for seeking out excellent food that almost rivaled his talent for finding new music.

“The baba ghanoush is killer, isn’t it?”

“Just like _Teta_ used to make,” Stewart agreed as they finished off the shared _mezze_ platter. “You know, speaking of our elder slave master and brother from an alien planet, Miles keeps pushing me that I should start a new band. Me and Andy. Hire a singer, bass player, even add in some keyboards since that’s all the rage.”

Ian made a face and a loud, rude noise. “That doesn’t sound like you. And I thought Andy was working on his own solo thing now.”

“He is. I’ve heard some of it. Believe me, once he’s done with it he’ll be looking for another gig.”

“Ouch!”

“Hey, I love the miserable bastard but he’s not a lead guy. And he’s definitely not a singer. Neither am I but at least I know that much.” Stewart was happy enough for now exploring his own thing. Scoring for _The Equalizer_ was keeping him busy and giving him a chance to play around with different ideas in music, to push himself to create to a constant looming deadline.

“I miss performing, but not everything else,” he continued. “It’s enough of a drag having to put on this dog and pony show now for some repackaged, expired goods. I don’t know about starting over from scratch, or almost scratch, with a new group.”

“I hear you,” Ian agreed. “But hey, _if_ you’re at all considering it, now or in the future, I’ll keep my eyes and ears peeled. If I run across anyone who could be looking for a band, who might be a good match with you guys, I’ll send you a tape. Hey, maybe your kid will come knockin’ on my door one of these days!”

Stewart frowned. “My kid? Jordan’s only three years old.”

“No, I mean _The_ Kid. The one in your head.” Ian pointed at his own skull.

“Oh, right.”

“Didn’t you say he’s into music?”

“Seems like it. But he’s a drummer like me. And still in high school.”

“Ah. You think he’s figured out who you are yet?”

“I have no idea, but I don’t think so. In fact I kind of hope not. You know the whole thing weirds me out.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Their main dishes arrived and Stewart dove into his lamb stew. “So what are you doing tonight? Want to go downtown, hit up any clubs?” Ian asked between mouthfuls of his chicken.

“No, you do your thing. I’ve got a meeting with the _Equalizer_ people this afternoon, then I’m going to recharge my batteries a bit.” It was a pleasant Autumn day, not too cold yet, so Stewart thought to head to Central Park. He could rent a pair of roller skates and lose himself in being nobody for a while. That was something he was beginning to enjoy, which could be why it had been so hard to switch back into Police-mode at all this year.

The grind of press tours, the constant bickering and fighting to have any say in the music they were making...he didn’t miss it. Sure, he would have loved to do some more touring, like they’d done on a small scale for Amnesty earlier in the year. But it seemed clear that was the extent of what they were capable of now without making each other miserable.

And life was too short to spend it angry and resentful—or waiting for someone, some supposed soulmate—to come make it all somehow better.

 


	5. August 1992

**_Cambridge, Massachusetts_ **

 

“Taylor! Over here!”

Taylor glanced around, scanning the line of people outside the club for the source of that familiar voice calling his name. “Deb!” he shouted out when he spotted her waving in his direction, and then ran over to give her a big hug. He hadn’t seen her since last summer break when she’d come home from college for a few months. It felt like forever. “Shit, you look great!”

“Thanks! So do you. Taylor, I’d like you to introduce you to Amber,” Debbie said, turning to the woman standing next to her.

Taylor grinned. “So I get to meet the famous Amber at last.”

Her smile was a bit reserved, but not unfriendly. “Hey. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

They certainly made a cute if unexpected couple. Debbie had never been comfortable with the looks-conscious world of Southern California and had gone into full-on “casual butch mode”, as she called it, since leaving home. Amber didn’t look at all like the “total nerd” Debbie had feared she’d be, what with her long dark hair dyed bright red on the ends, multiple ear piercings and Nirvana t-shirt. If anything she looked like she’d fit right in with the audiences at the club shows Taylor was playing in and around L.A.

And yet, from what Debbie had told him via excited phone calls and letters over the past year, there was no doubt they were most definitely soulmates.

Taylor was on his way up to Montreal to start a new touring gig on the drums. He had decided to catch a flight into Boston first, so he could visit his old friend and catch up for a few days. “So who’s this band we’re seeing tonight?” he asked.

“Opium Den. It’s them plus a couple other local acts,” Debbie said. “I’ve never heard them before, but they do some kind of art-goth-psychedelic rock thing. They sent some passes to the radio station this week and I’m always good for a free show.”

“‘Free’ is definitely one of my favorite words,” Taylor agreed. “Especially when music is involved—as long as that’s not what I’m being paid for a gig.”

“I hear ya. Oh hey, looks like they’re letting us in. You’ll have to give me more of the gossip from back home once we’re inside.” Debbie leaned in and said, “This place rarely cards, too, so we can probably get some drinks, too.”

“Sweet. This night is sounding better by the minute.”

 

The bands weren’t bad, but more than anything else it was fun to hang out—and rock out—again like the old days. After the show they headed back to the house Debbie and Amber were sharing in Newton with several other students and young professionals. It was all very bohemian and comfortable, in a cute neighborhood halfway between Wellesley where Debbie was in school, and Cambridge where Amber was working for a tech company she’d joined after graduating from M.I.T.

Amber called it a night soon after they got to the house, since she had work starting early the next morning. Debbie and Taylor went to hang out on the back deck of the house, to smoke a few cigarettes and get in more catch-up time in private.

“Thanks for letting me crash here for a couple nights,” Taylor said.

“No problem. Like I’m gonna turn away my best friend? So tell me, who’s this singer you’ve got the gig with again?”

“Sass Jordan. She’s Canadian, real popular there. So it’s definitely gonna be some of the biggest crowds I’ve ever played for.”

“That’s so cool. I’ll have to look up her stuff, see about getting some on air.”

“It’ll beat playing in shitty clubs and having to deliver pizza to pay the rent.” He’d been having fun screwing around with the band he’d joined back home and they were doing some interesting things, but he didn’t see it leading to the kind of success he’d dreamed about. Sure he loved music for music’s sake, but he wanted to feel the kind of rush he’d known from his soulmate dreams: the big arenas, tens of thousands of people all rocking out to the beat of his drums.

Ambition was important for success in this field—that was something he’d picked up from his soulmate dreams. Not waiting around for it to come to him but chasing it down, wherever it might lead him.

So he’d started auditioning for any promising-sounding gigs that he spotted in the local music press. He hadn’t expected to land this particular one—hadn’t even heard of Jordan until he showed up that day for the audition with her band. But they’d liked his energy and he liked the raw rock and roll style she possessed. The pay would be half-decent and the experience even better, finally getting that taste of life on the road, knowing what it was like for himself.

“Amber’s cool,” Taylor said. “Smart and into music. Seems like a perfect match for you.”

“She’s amazing. And it’s crazy, isn’t it? My parents wanted me to stay closer to home, but I wanted to get away, chase my dreams—both school-wise and to look for her. I’m so glad I did. Now we’ve got a whole future to plan out together.”

Debbie, with her interest and love for music, had volunteered with the college student radio station during her freshman year and soon was hosting a nighttime show on air. It turned out her Amber liked to listen to that station when working late shifts in her lab, and recognized Debbie’s voice from her own dreams. One night she called in with a request: “Spellbound” by Souixsie and the Banshees.

 _“I love that song! Souixsie is one of my favorites,”_ Debbie had said while taking the request.

_“I know she is. You’re always listening to her...in my dreams.”_

And that’s how it had come together for them.

“You followed your instincts, your gut feeling, and it paid off,” Taylor told her. “In more ways than one. Now I’m hoping for the same thing.”

“Have you made any progress finding your rockstar?”

“Nah. To be honest I’ve been kind of too busy with everything else to think about it too much.” Though it was another thing pushing him to make success a priority in his music career. If he got out there, got famous enough, it would _have_ to increase his chances of running into his soulmate or being recognized by him. Wouldn’t it? Like he might see Taylor on tv or hear him on the radio some day like what happened with Debbie and Amber. “I think he’s been dealing with some family stuff lately, that’s all I can say for sure. Seems to be living somewhere else, spending more time alone...like maybe he broke up with his wife recently and is dealing with all that.”

“Well that could be good for you, couldn’t it? Even if it sucks for him right now.”

“I guess.” Taylor took a last drag on his cigarette and watched the smoke blow up toward the starry night sky. He wondered what the stars looked like wherever his soulmate was, and if they’d ever get to appreciate them together.

* * *

**_Wiltshire, England_ **

 

“Another tequila?”

“ _Please_.”

Stewart collected his drink and meandered away from the makeshift bar, taking a stroll out into the gardens of the Lake House. It was a beautiful night, not a cloud in the sky, and it had been a perfect day for a wedding. After ten years together, Sting and Trudie had finally made it “official” with a celebration at their country estate, marking their bond as both legal wedded spouses and soulmates.

 _Why_ it had taken them so long was something Sting refused to answer, except in his usual oblique fashion. Stewart thought he understood, to some extent. Sting hated most institutions and had great disdain for their related pomp and ceremony. And then there was how ugly the press had been when news of their relationship had first come out, all the scandal and controversy surrounding it. So it was no real surprise he would not want to wed again right away, soulmates or not this time around. Who needed all that aggravation and attention?

Meanwhile Stewart and Sonja’s marriage had dissolved the year before without hardly a blip in the press, and he was happy with that. It had been nothing to do with soulmates—both of theirs were still, seemingly eternally—missing in action. No, they’d simply grown apart the more they’d ended up spending time around each other, sad as it was to realize. She had no use for the Hollywood crowd he found himself surrounded by as he got further involved in film and television scoring. She wanted to return to her folk music roots, get back to touring and living the traveling musician’s life. Meanwhile he’d had enough of that for his lifetime, thank you very much.

So here he now found himself, the single drummer at the Policeman’s ball. Celebrations were winding down, guests beginning to say their goodbyes and leave. Meanwhile, all Stewart was hoping for was a single quiet minute or two to speak with his old bandmate before he left.

Sting ended up finding _him_ , but only when he was good and ready. As was eternally his way.

“Stewart. Drinking that rocket fuel when we’re serving the best Italian vintages here tonight?”

“You know I’ve never liked wine. No matter how expensive.” Sting had somehow escaped the well-wishers to find Stewart here amidst the rose bushes and wisteria vines. “But it was a great party, Stingo. Hope we didn’t ruin it by getting dragged onstage to murder those songs.”

“By then everyone was too drunk to notice. Or care. I certainly was.”

“Ah, but think of it. The band’s come full circle, haven’t we? The Police: from shitty clubs to Shea Stadium, now available for your backyard wedding or bar mitzvah.”

“No one could afford us.” Sting sipped at his wine, then put a gentle hand on Stewart’s shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to say, I’m sorry about you and Sonja.”

“Thanks.” Stewart sighed. “But it’s for the best. Lots of things can change over the course of ten years, you know? People change, the things we want and need...it’s not immutable. Nothing is, not even love.”

“Love _can_ be. I know that now, with Trudie. Ten years and if anything it’s only stronger for us every day.”

“Good for you, Sting. And I mean that with all sincerity.”

“I know you do. And I sincerely hope you find the same, some day.” Sting gave him a hug, and then a kiss on the cheek. And then a longer kiss, on the mouth, and for a moment an old wish, a memory, passed through Stewart’s mind. Something he’d said to Sting in one of their better moments years before, alone together in some forgotten, nameless hotel.

_“Some days I swear we’re soulmates. Or that we should have been.”_

_“If that were the case, I’d have to kill myself,”_ Sting had replied calmly. _“If you didn’t kill me first.”_

“Take care of yourself,” Sting said as he pulled away.

“I always do.”

Sting walked off and Stewart finished off his drink, took a look up toward the night sky. And as much as he tried not to think about him he found himself wondering where The Kid was right now, what he was up to. Was it time to try to find him? Or was he feeling foolish and sentimental tonight? A touch melancholy and vulnerable, after this day’s events.

He’d have to see how he felt tomorrow, once he was sober, once his head was clear of so many memories of the past.

 


	6. October 1997

**_Somewhere in America_ **

 

Taylor was completely wasted—and he felt abso-fucking-lutely _great._

He couldn’t remember what city they were in tonight. Minneapolis? St. Paul? One or the other. Didn’t matter. His hotel room had a nice soft bed and his companion had a nice hard body. Whatever his name was.

That didn’t matter, either.

Tomorrow night he’d be in some other city and some other hotel room, after playing another concert and after another hard fuck. The only thing he needed to worry about between then and now was making sure the after-party fun would keep going strong.

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Keep all three flowing and he was a happy man.

Taylor reached for the joint he hadn’t finished off before, lighting it up again to help him get to sleep like his now snoring bedmate. Life was good, wasn’t it? Fucking fantastic. All going according to the plan he’d had in his mind since childhood.

Well, close enough that the rest didn’t bother him.

After leaving behind his first band he’d moved from one gig to the next, constantly on the lookout for something bigger, something better. More exposure. More talent. More challenges that would let him show what he was made of.

One thing had led to another had led to Alanis. And then the gig with Alanis had lead to Dave. _Dave fucking Grohl_ , in his own right one of the best—if not _the_ best—drummers of his time. When Dave had come to Taylor, asking for a recommendation for a new drummer for _his_ band? Fuck it if Taylor was going to let anyone else get that gig. The Foo Fighters were everything Taylor had been looking for in a group. He loved this band, even if it was terrifying to be part of something so big, so clearly headed for even greater success.

Dave was great. Taylor _loved_ Dave. They were like two sides of the same coin, driven by so many of the same things, including a love for the same music they’d both grown up listening to.

They could have been soulmates. Often it seemed that they _should_ have been. And if there was one imperfect thing in Taylor’s life, it was knowing that they weren’t.

He didn’t even think much about his actual soulmate these days. Wherever he was, his life was no longer more interesting than Taylor’s. There was still music there, in his dream visions, but not like before. And no drums whatsoever, save on occasion the view from an audience, not the stage. Nothing but computers and keyboards and a sense of doing it as a job more than a passion.

_“Bo-ring_ ,” as his old friend Debbie would have said. He hadn’t talked to her in a long time. He wondered how she was doing. He never seemed to have the time these days to pick up the phone and find out.

Taylor finished off the joint, which gave a nice happy boost to the floating wave of euphoria he was riding from the pills he’d taken before. He didn’t have many of those left. But if he couldn’t score more of those tomorrow, he knew he’d be able to get hold of something else. There were always people willing to hook up a rockstar with whatever he needed.

It was all good.

Everything was fucking _great._

* * *

**_Brentwood, California_ **

 

The music faded as the credits ran to the end, and Stewart felt ready to burst from the breath he’d been holding for the last eighty-and-some-odd-minutes.

Now came the moment of truth. This was the part of this process he dreaded, which never got any easier no matter how many times he’d been through it before. In fact if anything it only got worse as he had more experience—good, bad, and hide-under-the-blankets ugly—under his belt.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, trying to remain chipper, upbeat.

“It’s great, Stewart. Yeah...I think you’ve got something really, really good here.”

_Well, fuck me sideways._ When “great” dropped to “really good” within the space of two sentences, that was _never_ an encouraging sign.

The director glanced to the producer seated beside him on the sofa, the two men exchanging looks of less than one hundred percent enthusiasm. Stewart would put it somewhere around fifty-to-sixty percent, max. “Yeah, overall you’ve got a good start here—” the director continued.

Fuck, a _start_? He’d been working non-stop on this score for two weeks and had another project lined up to begin come Monday. He was toast.

“–though there are a few points that could use some...you know, tweaking.”

“Finessing,” the other man agreed.

“Maybe a different kind of...mood.”

“You mean, like more...sad-happy than happy-sad?” Stewart offered. That was generally one of his go-to’s. Film people rarely had the words to express what they were looking for musically. A big part of Stewart’s job came down to sussing their intentions out, bit by bit.

“Something along those lines. Can we...let’s start back at…” The director glanced down at a yellow legal pad far too full of notes for Stewart’s pleasure. “...let’s start around five-twenty-five. After the opening credits sequence. The music for that was great, by the way.”

_Yeah, that was the song I_ **_didn’t_ ** _write._

And so the afternoon dragged on, Stewart doing his best to keep his chin up while the director and producer ripped his hard work to shreds. It wasn’t the first time he’d been so very much off the mark, but it never failed to burn, at least a little bit.

Or in this case, a _lot_.

He’d lick his wounds, though, and check his pride, and tomorrow he’d start over from _almost_ scratch.

He could do it, even if it meant working straight through the weekend ahead. He didn’t have any other plans and often he did his best work under pressure.

But for the rest of the day, he was taking a necessary break.

After they left, he packed his bike onto his jeep’s rack and took off for the beach. He needed some fresh air and sunshine, a change of scenery away from the walls of his home studio. He’d go for a ride, work up a sweat, then head to Backstage Cafe for the night. Drown his sorrows at the bar, let out all his woes on Ian. His brother always knew how to pick him up when he was feeling low.

Or give him a kick in the ass, depending on which he needed more.

Stewart had moved here, to the sunny shores of southern California, not long after his divorce. It had only made sense to be right in the hub of it all as his film scoring career was taking off. Easier to have one-on-one meetings like today instead of doing everything long distance, or flying back and forth constantly. To go to all the right parties, make the necessary connections with the beautiful and powerful people in Hollyweird.

It had also felt right on another level. Like when he first walked this beach he now rode along and realized he’d been here before.

In his dreams.

His soulmate lived somewhere out here, in Southern California. He’d suspected as much for a while but as soon as he’d arrived here he’d been sure of it. The geography of it all felt far too familiar, in that vague way, that uncertain space of reality that existed between dreams and his own lived experience. He knew he’d dreamed of riding a bike along these paths, of taking a surfboard out into these exact ocean waters. It could be a strange and disorienting sense of déjà vu, but at times it could be an odd comfort as well.

He rode the path this late afternoon, offering the occasional nod or wave at those passing by in the opposite direction. Sometimes he’d find himself wondering if one of those passing by could be The Kid—who was actually a kid no longer, so he needed to stop thinking of him as such. If anything, Stewart’s dreams showed he was living the kind of life Stewart used to live himself. Playing drums for growing audiences, enjoying the kind of rock and roll excesses he used to indulge in (and then some)...

The details were always too hazy to figure out who he was, but Stewart had no doubt he was now a successful rock drummer in his own right. Hell, for all he knew they might have met at some event, concert or after-party by now and not have even realized it. Or would they know, in that instant, if that happened?

He’d confessed to such questions and curiosity to Ian, who would shake his head, pour another round, and offer one of his typically astute observations.

_“Admit it, Stew. Despite all your protestations, you’re hoping that one day he’s gonna come banging on your door. Or even show up here at Backstage. You spend enough time drinking up my tequila that he ought to know this place from_ **_his_ ** _dreams.”_

_“I don’t know. I used to think it would be too weird. But we’re both adults now, right? Here I used to be creeped out by having a kid in my head. These days I wonder how tough it might have been to be stuck with_ **_my_ ** _life experiences from an early age.”_

_“If nothing else you’d have plenty to talk over.”_

_“If nothing else, that’s for sure.”_

Stewart ended up taking a pass on visiting his brother’s bar that evening. He realized getting drunk or even slightly tipsy wouldn’t do him any good if he needed to stay clear headed and focused over the weekend ahead. He had too much work to do, and in fact the ride had given him some creative momentum, some ideas and music in his head that he hadn’t thought of before. He might jump straight in on them that evening, work through the night if so motivated.

It wasn’t as if he had someone at home who’d scold him to come to bed. He was living the bachelor life, which he hadn’t done in over twenty years. Sometimes it was lonely, sure, but he could easily find short-term company when he wanted it. His world had no shortage of eager takers for that kind of time with a rockstar, even one of fading glory.

And perhaps, if he was ever going to actually find and get to know his soulmate, it would be best if he knew his own self better first.

 


	7. August 2001

**_London, England_ **

 

As much as California had become a way of life, Stewart still felt it was a kind of a homecoming every time he visited London again.

He missed the seasons—even the cold, short days of winter—if only because they made him appreciate the consistently warm and sunny days of the West Coast even more. He also missed the sense of history, in England as in all of Europe, the way that things only changed very slowly, if they ever changed at all.

Other things changed far too quickly—like his boys growing up seemingly overnight. They were of course a huge reason why he spent much of his late summers here when they were off from school. Jordan was getting ready to start at university and Scott was at the point of needing to figure out what to do next. So these were important days to spend doing more than long-distance and holiday parenting.

His current visit was now winding down and he’d be heading home in a few days. He had to get ready for his own new adventure that would be starting up in September. Well, it would be something new and old at the same time, he supposed. His “supergroup” Oysterhead was about to drop their album and then they were hitting the road for a couple months. It was going to be quite a change of pace for Stewart, considering he hadn’t been touring—nor even behind a drum kit more than once in a blue moon—for over a decade. But his buddies Les and Trey had dragged him back to his rightful place driving the chariot and he was excited for what lay ahead.

He was also hopeful he could keep up with his younger colleagues, and that this tour wouldn’t lay him out flat on his back.

But for now the weekend was over. He’d enjoyed a pleasant Sunday supper with the whole family, and he was back at his hotel looking forward to the night’s rest. He watched the BBC news in bed for a short while but turned it off after hearing the main headlines of the day. There was something about a music festival wrapping up that evening outside of London, but that was about the extent of anything noteworthy. All in all the world seemed peaceful and quiet.

He had no reason to believe that this night was about to change his life forever.

* * *

History was rich with stories—some real, many fabled, some happy, others tragic—of soulmates finding each other only at some critical junction in one or both of their lives. Of fate leading them to cross paths, to put the pieces of their dream-puzzles together, just in time to try to avert some tragedy, death or disaster. The hard-boiled detective flummoxed by a kidnapping case, only to realize his dreams were leading him to the victim—his soulmate. The girl who traveled continents searching for a particular cliff-side view she saw almost every night in her dreams, only to find it in time to save her soulmate, a woman despairing of loneliness, from jumping over the edge. The prince preparing to lead his army into battle, resolved that they were all facing certain death, only to recognize the opposing army’s leader for who he was and declaring peace.

Was it such fate that had brought Stewart to London, this particular moment in time? Or pure luck, given his routine summer visits here in the past? He might never know for sure, though it seemed like fate given he’d been living a stone’s throw from his soulmate for years and never run into him.

In fact dreams of his soulmate had been few and far between of late, and when they came they often seemed to arrive from an altered state of being. Sometimes manic and speed-driven, full of the adrenaline rush of live performance. Other times they were hazy and distant, like he was floating somewhere above it all, disconnected. Dizzying. That felt familiar to an extent as well, a feeling Stewart had identified years before as a kind of vertigo of fame. That feeling when it all became too much and the only way out was to numb yourself to it all to make it through to the next day, the next nameless city and venue.

It hadn’t been a feeling he’d liked—in fact it had frightened him. He realized now it was why he’d been able to walk away from it all, years before, and set out on his own quieter path. He might miss the stage and drumming, but he’d leave Sting to the all-consuming madness of worldwide fame, and Andy to regret and bitterness. Stewart had the feeling it could consume him too easily, like it had for so many others before him.

Like he worried it was doing to his soulmate, wherever he was.

Because on that night, based on the dream in which Stewart found himself lost, The Kid was drowning in it.

_Drowning...sinking...or soaring so high he couldn’t find his way back down. Direction became meaningless. Everything became nothing. His hands felt too heavy to lift, to move. Then he couldn’t feel his hands at all._

_The numbness spread from his limbs to his chest. Every breath was a labor, one he had to force himself to remember to complete. He knew if he didn’t, he’d be dead._

_And maybe that would be okay._

_Maybe that was for the best. Did it matter? What mattered? He couldn’t remember. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. And if he let it happen, he could ride away on this happy cloud of nothingness forever...that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?_

_But before the wave of nothingness could pull him under completely, he heard a voice trying to call him to the surface. His own? Someone else’s? Couldn’t tell. Only that it was yelling at him, “No! Wake up! Come back! It’s not your time.”_

_He knew it wasn’t. He had too much to do yet, didn’t he?_

_Too much for it to end like this._

_The voice, that realization, brought him back to Earth, back to his hotel room. His bed. His body. Eyes flickering open, he looked down and saw the needle still in his arm._

_Fuck._

_He hadn’t meant to take too much. Must’ve...fuck, must have been a bad score. Because this wasn’t right, wasn’t normal. He was scared now, scared_ _clear-headed enough to recognize he was in some deep shit._

_And he couldn’t let it end this way, let everyone one down. Could’t let Dave down._

_Dave._

_Call Dave_ _,_ _the thought came clear to him. Dave will know what to do._

_It took every ounce of his strength to will motion back into his numb limbs. To roll over in bed to find the phone on the nightstand. The receiver felt so heavy when he tried to pick it up, like a lead weight._

_Panic nearly overwhelmed him again. The darkness tried to call him back._

_Breathe. Just breathe._

_Dave._

_Only he couldn’t remember Dave’s room number. Or anything. He fumbled with the phone until he could find and hit the operator button. Hours seemed to pass, the ringing so loud and awful in his ear he wanted to drop the phone and hang up. And then the ringing stopped and a voice answered. He couldn’t process what was said to him, he just mumbled into the phone._

_“Need...help...I...I think I’m...”_

_But speaking proved more effort than his body could handle. He fell into the darkness, weightless as he dropped the phone and everything turned to black._

 

_He came to again in a blur, a flurry of activity all around him. Voices shouting at him, over him. Now he wanted them all to go away._

_“Hello? Taylor, mate, can you hear me? Can you wake up? You’ve got to wake up for me now, buddy.”_

_“He’s not responding.”_

_“Right. Be ready to bag him up if need be, and be careful for needles. Hey, mate? Can you open your eyes for me? Taylor, try to stay with us.”_

_“Is he breathing?”_

_“For now. But we’ve got to get him to the hospital. Taylor, hey hey hey, don’t fall back to sleep.”_

_He tried, but it was hard. So hard. He heard them shouting about more milligrams of something, shouting and yelling and pushing him this way and that, but then he slipped away again._

 

_More noise, loud voices. Taylor drifted in and out of awareness, though even when he could understand those around him, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond._

_“C’mon, T. Hang in there.”_

_That was a voice he recognized. Dave. He wanted to tell Dave it was fine, he was fine, but he couldn’t._

_“ETA five minutes.”_

_“Tell St. Thomas’ they’d better have a crash trolley ready.”_

_He wanted to tell Dave he was sorry. Sorry Dave had to see him like this. Sorry he had to clean up this mess. Had to be stuck with a drummer who was never going to be as good as he was, who had fucked up under the pressure._

_Had to…_

_He had to do something._

_But it didn’t matter now._

_Alarms screaming, but it didn’t matter._

_Time to let it go. Forget about it all._

_Time to—_

Stewart jerked awake, gasping for the air and blinking away the suffocating darkness. Disoriented and scared out of his goddamned mind, he flailed for the light switch, unable to remember in that moment where he was. Sweat drenched his skin, and his heart was pounding so hard in his chest he felt like he was about to go into cardiac arrest.

 _Hotel room. Hotel...London,_ it all came back to him. _Calm the fuck down, you’re not dying. It was nothing but a bad dream. A nightmare._

No. No, he knew it had been more than that. It hadn’t been a simple dream; the sensations and experience had been too vivid, too powerful. It had to have come from somewhere else—his soulmate, he realized with absolute certainty. It had been a vision, a connection, far stronger than he’d ever felt before. So strong that for once the details weren’t slipping away from him upon waking, nor did he want them to. He knew he needed to recall everything before the memory faded in the slightest.

Before The Kid was dead. He might be dead already.

Stewart fought against a wave of nausea, trying _not_ to focus on those last few moments of the dream and what he had experienced then. But the rest. He had to concentrate on _that._ Being in an ambulance. The paramedics talking over him...they’d had British accents, hadn’t they? The sound of the siren hadn’t been like an American ambulance. And he’d heard the name of a hospital…

_“Tell St. Thomas’ they’d better have a crash trolley ready.”_

_St. Thomas’._ St. Thomas’ Hospital, that was right here in London. Stewart knew it, he’d been there before.

Knew he had to get there _now_.

He staggered out of bed and dressed in haste, grabbing whatever was nearest and in his sight to throw on. Wallet, phone, shoes, hat to cover the mess of his hair he had no time to deal with.

In a few quick minutes he was downstairs. His manic appearance startled the sleepy-eyed night clerk as he rushed at her and said, “I need a taxi, please. As soon as possible. To St. Thomas’ Hospital.”

“Of course. Though I-if you need medical assistance I can dial nine nine nine and—”

“No, it’s not for me. I just...I need to get there.”

“Right away, sir.”

Stewart exhaled, tried to settle himself. This was crazy, he knew. Fucking batshit. Chasing after a dream...was he so sure about it having to be his soulmate? Now that he was more awake he was beginning to have some doubts.

But he’d never forgive himself if he ignored what he’d witnessed in his dream and then found out the worst. If the dreams stopped entirely. If he missed the chance to find out who The Kid was.

And he finally had a name, from this startlingly clear dream. After all these years, he knew his fucking name. _Taylor_. Taylor needed help and for the dream to have been that strong, Stewart had to assume that it was _his_ help that Taylor needed the most.

* * *

There was only light traffic on the predawn roads of London so they made it to the hospital in short time. Stewart dashed out of the taxi into the emergency entrance...and then nearly tripped over himself as he came to an abrupt stop. In his haste and panic, he hadn’t exactly planned for what he was going to do once he got here.

How was he now supposed to find the man he was looking for when he didn’t even know his full name? When he was likely famous enough they’d have security in place to keep away all but immediate family and close contacts? Was he supposed to go up to the receptionist or triage nurse and say, what, precisely?

_“Hello, I’m looking for some guy named Taylor. We’ve never met, but I think he overdosed on something and a soulmate dream led me here.”_

Somehow he wasn’t sure that would be all that convincing.

He scanned over the waiting room area, which was not too full given the hour. There might be someone else who was waiting here who would be able to help him out. He noticed a group of men huddled together in one corner who, well...to Stewart’s experienced eyes all had that look. The _band_ look. There were some older, big guys with long hair and crew jackets, the typical roadies and security types. Several younger men were in the middle of them, looking anxious, upset.

Something clicked that they were all somehow familiar to Stewart, too. Whether it was because he had seen them in a dream or had some vague idea of who they were as a band, he wasn’t certain. But he headed over toward them before he could second-guess his instincts.

If he made a fool of himself, oh well, it would be far from the first time.

One of the younger-looking guys, with a man short dark hair and a mustache, appeared to be describing the situation to the others. He looked up as Stewart approached, at first with clear annoyance and with his guard raised. The security types immediately stiffened and appeared ready to close ranks, so Stewart knew he only had a brief moment to state his case.

“Excuse me, sorry to barrel in here,” Stewart began apologetically. The dark-haired man’s expression had changed now and he was staring at Stewart, slack-jawed. The others turned to see what he was looking at. Stewart continued in a rush, “I’m looking for someone who was brought here tonight and, um…”

“You. You’re...Stewart Copeland,” the man said.

Stewart blinked, caught off-guard. “I’m flattered by the recognition, doesn’t happen all the time these days. Listen, you guys are a band, right? I’ve probably heard of you too but you’ll have to excuse me right now for not remembering which one. Your drummer is the reason you’re here, right? Is he...is his name Taylor?”

The dark-haired man nodded. Stewart was racking his brain trying to recognize or remember who he was, because he looked incredibly familiar. D-something was his name. He was a drummer, too.

Played with Nirvana. That’s it. Dave.

 _Dave..._ Stewart remembered that name from the dream. Dave had been with Taylor in the ambulance.

It was all starting to fall into place. Dave Grohl. Foo Fighters. Shit, it was _all_ coming together now, tumbling over him like a cascade of suppressed memories.

Dave nodded at him. “Taylor, yeah. He...it was an overdose. Heroin, likely laced with something else. They’re working on him now.”

“But he’s still alive,” Stewart needed to know.

“Last anyone told us,” one of the others put in. Stewart somehow knew his name was Nate, and the other was Chris. With every second standing there it felt like details from previous dreams were opening up to him. In fact he had to concentrate to stay focused on the present when all these realizations and memories were threatening to make him dizzy.

“How did you know any of this? That he’s here?” Dave asked Stewart, demanding his attention. “Don’t tell me someone leaked this to the press when it just happened!”

“No, it’s...nothing like that, as far as I know.” Stewart paused for a second, then thought, what the hell. There was no reason not to tell the complete truth, not if he wanted the confidence and trust of Taylor’s friends and bandmates. “I saw everything. Not in person, but in a dream tonight. I wasn’t sure, but since I was here in London already I had to find out...”

“Holy shit!” Chris exclaimed, and the three bandmates all looked at each other, shock spreading from one face to the next. “Guys, don’t you get it? Stewart’s _the one_. That Taylor’s always talked about. Stewart is Taylor’s soulmate.”

“Ho. Ly. _Fuck_. Fucking hell...” Dave looked back and forth between the others and Stewart. _“_ Taylor said he _knew_ it was another drummer. Someone big.”

“He did?” Stewart asked.

“Yeah. But he could never figure out who.”

“Likewise.” Stewart let out a sigh, feeling some relief that he wasn’t crazy. That at long last, he finally knew who “The Kid” was, and here were his friends to confirm it. “Wish it hadn’t taken something like this for me to figure it out. Anyway...is it all right if I wait here with you guys for any news?”

“Fuck yeah it’s all right,” Dave said. “We’ve got a _lot_ to talk about.”

* * *

“I don’t think I’ve said how fucking _awesome_ it is to meet you, by the way. Wish it was under other circumstances but, fuck, you’re not just one of Taylor’s heroes but one of mine, too.”

It was pretty clear that “fuck” was Dave’s favorite word. “Well, thank you for that. You’re not exactly chopped liver yourself.”

They were in a more private waiting area now, and had nothing more to do but sit around and hope for the best. Stewart listened with eager ears as Nate, Chris, and Dave in particular filled him in on pertinent history, long past and more recent. How Dave and Taylor had been friends before Taylor had offered himself up for the Foo Fighters gig, how much he had idolized his childhood and teenage musical heroes.

“You should hear Taylor rip into ‘Message in a Bottle’, man, he’s a fucking beast on it,” Dave boasted.

“No doubt better than I am, since there are more than twenty drum overdubs on that track as recorded,” Stewart admitted. “It usually gives me great schadenfreude listening to other drummers try to cover it.”

“He’s played since he was a kid. This band didn’t come together until Taylor joined. If anything happens to him now...” Dave paused and sighed, “that’s it. I’m done with it.”

 _“If anything.”_ If he died, Stewart knew that was what Dave meant but none of them wanted to say.

Turned out the Foos had played a gig that night—the festival Stewart had heard about on the news hours before. One of the last bands of the night, the partying had moved from the festival grounds to their hotel. Dave had seen Taylor go off with some random guy after a few drinks in Dave’s suite. That had been the last he’d heard from him, until he’d received a panicked call from the band’s manager that an ambulance was on the way to their hotel.

“Promoters are gonna be pissed about the upcoming tour dates,” Chris said.

“Fuck ’em,” was Dave’s only response. “Tour’s over, far as I’m concerned. No matter what. This has been too much on all of us. Too many months on the road, then trying to record, then rushing back on the road...it’s over. Until we get ourselves _all_ back on track.”

After an hour or so of anxiety-inducing silence from any hospital staff, a doctor came out to meet with them. The news, while not dire, was not exactly what they wanted to hear, either.

Taylor was alive and breathing on his own, but he had not regained consciousness yet. In fact he was in a coma and when—or rather, _if_ —he would come out of it was not something they could yet say. Until then they wouldn’t be able to fully determine if he’d suffered any lingering or permanent brain damage, or other possible complications.

“Unfortunately we’re now in a waiting game,” the doctor explained to them. “Which is not necessarily a bad thing. The coma can give him time to heal and for his body to get through the worst of the physical withdrawal symptoms.”

“But he’ll make it, won’t he?” Dave asked her.

“I don’t like to make promises, nor predictions, in cases such as this one,” the doctor said with caution. “Seizures, which can be fatal, are possible despite our best efforts to stabilize his condition. Or he could wake up in a few hours feeling and acting as if nothing has happened.”

“Or he might never wake up at all,” Stewart put in.

“That is possible as well, yes.”

“When can we—anyone—see him?” Dave asked.

“Soon. Once he’s been transferred out of recovery into his room in the ICU. You can check with the nursing desk there as to when visitation may begin—and who will be authorized to attend. I understand Mr. Hawkins is a public figure, so security concerns will of course be taken under consideration. He will be receiving VIP accommodations and treatment. Did I hear that his soulmate is present?”

“That would be me,” Stewart said. _Or so I think, anyway._ He thought it best to leave out the part about how they hadn’t actually met yet.

“Very good. You should spend as much time near him as possible. The close presence of a soulmate can sometimes help pull comatose patients back to consciousness.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Now that they had an update, Dave sent Chris, Nate, and the rest of their crew off to get some rest. “Anything happens I’ll let you guys know, but you should get some sleep for now,” he told them.

“I’ll call and let his parents know what’s going on,” said a man whom Stewart had determined was the band’s road manager. “And then we’ll need to work on something for the press before they get hold of the news on their own. Nothing too specific, of course.”

Dave nodded and accepted some hugs and words of support, then it was just him and Stewart in the sterile, quiet waiting area.

“Christ, I hope we can keep the press off this for while,” Dave said, rubbing his face. He looked much more tired and upset than he’d let on before. He was clearly the band’s leader, the one the others all looked to for direction and strength in times like this. “A couple days even, when hopefully he’ll be awake and out of trouble.”

“My brother Miles is the master at that sort of thing,” Stewart offered. “At managing to spin things or keep them out of the press. If there’s anything he or I can do to help…”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but our team’s usually on the ball.” Dave turned to Stewart, shook his head and let out a small laugh. “This is all fucking nuts, you know? That son of a bitch has to come through this, because I need to see his face when he realizes it’s you. You have no idea how much it’s gonna mean to him.”

“I wish I did. I wish I’d tried harder to find him before now,” Stewart confessed. “Maybe then we wouldn’t be stuck here, waiting…”

“Don’t beat yourself up over what happened. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I had no idea he was using. I mean, I knew he liked to party. Shit, we all do. But I didn’t know he pushed it that hard. That he was fucking around with hard shit like heroin and who the fuck knows what else. _Fuck_. I’ve _seen_ what that shit can do to people, and I couldn’t see what it was doing to my best friend? What the hell is _my_ problem?”

“Sometimes it’s hardest to see what’s going on with the people we’re the closest to,” Stewart offered in sympathy. “We’re too close to notice the changes until it’s too late. Or we don’t want to believe what we’re seeing because we care too much.”

“Yeah, could be.” Dave let out a long, deep sigh. “If we’re gonna be waiting for a while yet before seeing him, I need a smoke.”

“I could use one, too.” _And some more sleep, and a shower, and some clothes that matched,_ Stewart thought. But for now he would settle for a cigarette. “Let’s take ten outside and then check in with ICU.”

“All right.”

* * *

They endured another hour or so of hanging around, of sharing stories that continued unlocking details from Stewart’s past dreams. In fact he now knew more about his soulmate from this one night than he’d been able to figure out over decades.

Finally, they got the all-clear to visit Taylor in his room. “And no more than two people at a time, please,” the nurse told them. “It is important not to cause any unnecessary stress, or make too much noise out of consideration for the other patients on the ward.”

“Understood, thanks,” Dave said, then he turned to Stewart. “Guess we can go in together, if that’s okay with you?”

“Why don’t you go first. You’ve been his friend far longer than I’ve known, well...any of this.” In fact he still felt rather like an interloper here, charging in on things—into Taylor’s life and his relationships. It was hard to let go of that feeling despite the warm welcome he’d received from Dave and the other members of his band.

And if he were honest, Stewart would admit he was fighting off a serious panic attack at the reality of coming face to face with his soulmate, even if that man was unconscious. He needed a few minutes alone to work himself up for this—and he could see Dave could use some time on his own with Taylor, too.

“All right, thanks. When you’re ready to join me…”

“I’ll be in, soon.”

Dave headed on through the the doorway leading to the ICU ward. Stewart paced around, tried taking some deep breaths to calm himself. He considered making a quick call to Ian back home in L.A. Sure it would be past midnight, but Ian was probably just closing up Backstage right now. Ian would be good for a pep talk, he always was.

Only...no. He could handle this. He _had_ to handle this, and it was time to do so on his own. He took a quick trip to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, check his appearance. He wanted to make sure he didn’t look like a complete crazy old goat if Taylor were to suddenly wake up when he walked in.

He supposed he was as presentable as he was going to get on two hours sleep, a couple cigarettes and shitty NHS coffee. He sighed and, seeing that he’d puttered about and delayed for twenty minutes, decided it was finally time.

The short walk down that ICU corridor felt like the longest journey of his life. Taylor’s room was far down at the end, which did grant it some extra privacy from the rest of the ward. He knocked gently on the cracked-open door, so as not to startle Dave. Stepping inside he found a room only dimly lit, mostly by the glow of various monitoring equipment beeping and blinking away.

He heard Dave let out a soft sniffle. Then Dave said in a quiet voice, “Hey, T, there’s someone here you’re gonna want to meet. So you might wanna try to wake up soon, okay?”

Stewart wasn’t sure what he expected, what he thought he was supposed to feel or experience in that moment. He approached the bed and looked down at the comatose man lying there, and he felt—

He felt _something_ , but it was hard to describe. Something like a crackle or spark in the back of his brain. The sound of a needle dropping onto a record but _feeling_ it, not hearing it. A hum, a vibration, full of the expectation right before the music was to start.

It wasn’t love at first sight or anything so cliché. But it was a strange feeling of _rightness,_ of things shifting and patterns falling into place.And yet it also left him full of questions and burning curiosity.

_Who is this man? Why am I here? Why are we meant to be here together, now?_

_How on Earth can I help him?_

“This is the longest I’ve ever seen Taylor stay still,” Dave said, trying to bring some humor to the situation. “It’s not normal.”

“The drummer’s natural state is one of perpetual motion.” AndStewart’s head was spinning enough for the three of them in that room.

Taylor did look like he was merely sleeping, all very peaceful despite the tubes and needles taped to his body. He had blond hair that fell to near his shoulders and a short-cropped, darker beard, which did little to make him look as old as his supposed twenty-nine years. Fuck, “The Kid” really did look like an overgrown kid, Stewart thought. Like the quintessential California surfer dude...which was not that far off from what Dave had described and what Stewart had envisioned in his head.

Although the reality was far more compelling.

“You okay?” Dave asked.

“Yeah. Just...processing.”

Dave got up from his chair, letting go of Taylor’s left hand that he’d been holding. “I’m going to step out for while, give you some time alone.”

“Thanks.”

Dave left, closing the door, and after a moment Stewart took a seat in that chair himself. He sat there in silence, looking, studying, seeking to understand what he was feeling.

_This is the man I’ve spent half of my life wondering about, either avoiding or curious to meet. But is he even in there any longer? What am I supposed to do next?_

The only thing he could think of was to take his hand and start talking. Words usually came easy to him, sometimes all the wrong ones, but he wasn’t going to concern himself with that now. He cleared his throat, tried not to feel self-conscious as he talked to this man who was both a complete stranger and someone he shared an inexplicably intimate connection to.

“Hey there...Taylor. It’s Stewart. I’m guessing this isn’t how you ever imagined us meeting. In truth I wasn’t sure we ever would meet at all. If you wanted to...if _I_ wanted to.”

He studied the hand in his own, feeling the tips of Taylor’s fingers. They were rough and calloused, like his used to be. A drummer’s hand, without question. His eyes traveled upward, back to that face. Boyish yet rugged, there was something about him that pinged a memory of young Sting, back in his punk or even pre-punk days, when Stewart had first seen him in Newcastle.

Stewart only wished he could see his eyes. What color were they? What would he find in their gaze?

“I hear you’re a pretty kick-ass drummer yourself, according to the other guys in your band, and Dave. If I’m in any way to blame for that then you’re going to need to come out of this so I can hear for myself, all right? There’s a lot we need to catch up on and figure out. So I’m going to wait around, but you have to give me that chance.”

He waited and watched, hoping against hope for any response, any twitch or sign that his words had been heard.

Nothing. Just the beep of the machines, the steady rise and fall of Taylor’s chest as he took each breath.

So Stewart would wait. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing else that was as important as being here and hoping to witness the moment when Taylor might open those eyes.

* * *

The first day passed uneventfully, and with no improvement in Taylor’s condition. Nate and Chris returned later on to give Stewart and Dave a break, though neither would leave the hospital to get rest back at their hotels. Dave’s personal assistant brought him some fresh clothes and toiletries, while Stewart ended up calling Sonja to explain what was going on. He apologized for not being able to keep further plans with the boys on what was supposed to be the last few days of his visit.

_“Don’t worry yourself, Stewart. They’ll understand. Is there anything I can do to help?”_

“Actually...I don’t suppose you could swing by my hotel and pick up a few things for me.”

She did, and he was beyond thankful for that. And glad that after everything she would still look out for him like this.

“I hope I’m doing the right thing, being here,” he told her when she arrived later that evening.

“How could you not be? He called out to you, didn’t he? Your dream, as you described it, sounds like it was a cry for help.”

“I guess so.”

“And you listened, and now you have found him.” She gave him a light kiss and a smile. “You are a good man, so be good to him. And to yourself. When this is over I’d like to meet him as well.”

“You think?”

She shrugged. “In a way he was always a part of our marriage. You just never wanted to acknowledge it.”

“And you were always too smart _and_ too beautiful for an asshole like me.”

“Good night, Stewart. Get some rest, I can tell you need it.”

He tried, but the fold-out sofa bed in Taylor’s room only gave him a horrible crick in his lower back.

* * *

Taylor’s mother Barbara arrived from California the following day. She came alone, explaining to Dave, “My husband says someone had to stay behind in case we needed to make funeral arrangements. I told him he’d better plan for his own if he’s going to take that attitude, because I’m gonna kill him myself when I get home.”

Stewart took a liking to her immediately.

She wasn’t quite so quick to warm up to him, though he could understand her cautiousness. Here he was, someone she’d never met before claiming to be her son’s soulmate while he was in a drug-overdose coma. He wouldn’t blame her for thinking it was all his fault, though Dave was still doing his best—or worst, depending on your point of view—to take on most of the blame himself.

“Stewart never even met Taylor until now. _I’m_ the one who was with him nearly every day and should have seen the state he was in.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But if he hadn’t had those rockstar dreams in his head since the day he was born, he might not have been sucked into this lifestyle.”

“Believe me, if there was any way I could have shut him out of my head until he was older, I would have,” Stewart insisted. “I know it couldn’t have been easy on a kid. _Any_ kid. But it’s not as if I had any control of the situation.”

Taylor had an older brother and sister, both of whom said they’d “try” to come if they could make arrangements for taking care of their own children at home, or get away from work...or if the situation took a turn for the more immediate worse. But they didn’t seem so quick to drop everything for their younger brother, which made Stewart wonder. In his own family, as much as he might at times knock heads with his siblings, each would drop everything to help any of the others out of a rough spot.

Indeed, Ian was there with the sympathetic ear and an optimistic outlook when Stewart did finally call him that day to explain what was going on. Les and Trey, too. While Barbara was getting some alone time with her son, Stewart called them. He explained the situation apologetically, given they were to start tour rehearsals shortly and head out on the road in a few weeks.

“Obviously, I can’t leave London until I know what’s the long-term situation here.”

 _“Don’t even think you have to apologize for that. If we have to cancel or reschedule any dates, that should be the least of your worries right now,”_ Trey insisted, and Les was equally understanding.

_“Do what you gotta do, Stew. We want to rock out with you when your head’s in the right space for it. And if you can bring Taylor along for the ride, the more the merrier.”_

It was a nice idea, a happy thought for the future, but Stewart was too focused on the here and now to think too much about it.

* * *

After the first week passed without any change, things settled into a somber routine. So far, the only news released to the press was that Taylor was hospitalized for a post-festival “overindulgence” and upcoming tour dates were cancelled. No one needed more specific information than that.

They all took shifts at Taylor’s bedside, ever hopeful for an improvement in his condition. Their crew might have been sent home but his bandmates, mother and Stewart weren’t leaving. In fact Dave rarely departed the hospital grounds, and Stewart followed much the same routine. One afternoon Dave was “on shift” with Chris while Stewart took a lunch break with Barbara in the dreary hospital cafeteria. Her initial distrust of him had mellowed somewhat, and he wanted to do what he could to get on better terms, learn more about Taylor’s background.

“As much as British food has improved elsewhere, I can’t say the same for the culinary offerings here,” he remarked, staring at his tray of colorless food, a sorry creation that made the pretense of being a shepherd’s pie.

“You’ve spent a lot of time here—in London, I mean?” she asked.

Stewart nodded. “From my boarding school days until a few years after my most famous band’s demise. But these days I call Brentwood home.”

“That’s not far from where Taylor lives now.”

“Amazing how close we were to each other but didn’t realize it.”

She picked at her salad, pushing limp lettuce around a paper plate. “I’m sorry if I was rude to you at first. But this has never been an easy situation. I wanted to encourage him to do and be what he wanted in life, no matter what. But it was so hard to know how much of it was _him_ , and how much was his idolizing some far away stranger in his dreams.”

“And I have the impression your husband wasn’t as tolerant as you were.”

“Gerry is a good father but he’s...old fashioned. Texas, bible-belt, I’m sure you know the drill. Would never have moved to California if not for being transferred by his job back when Taylor was a few years old. I think, honestly, he was more disappointed that Taylor’s soulmate was a man than he was about the rockstar business...but that didn’t help either.”

“I’m sure.”

She laughed softly and gave him a wistful smile. “You know, you were one of his favorites when he was a teenager, so I’m actually not surprised it turned out to be you. He had your poster on his bedroom wall, back in his high school days.”

“I know. From _Rumble Fish_. I was there right between Freddie Mercury and David Bowie,” Stewart recalled, the memory of a dream flashing through his mind at the prompting. One of those he remembered now with sharper clarity since finally being in Taylor’s presence. She looked at him as he continued, “His first drum set was a Pearl, with a turquoise blue finish. He kept that kit for years, along with his favorite stuffed toy, Theodore the Elephant. Eventually he traded in the kit, but Theodore still has a place in his studio, on the shelf right under his Rush _2112_ poster. His best friend in high school was a girl named Debbie. They used to smoke a lot of weed in his bedroom after class,” he finished, almost apologetically at the last part. He wondered if that, too, had somehow been his undue influence.

She laughed much more boisterously at that. “And he thought I couldn’t smell it clinging to everything in his room.” But then with a sigh she added, “Maybe I should have been stricter, kept him away from the drugs—not just back then but I had a feeling whenever he’d come to visit that he was pushing things too hard…”

“He’s a rock star, keeping drugs away is like keeping flies off cow shit—pardon my French. You either learn to cope with it and how to say ‘no’, or at minimum ‘no more’, or else…”

“You end up where we find ourselves today.”

“I only wish I’d put the pieces together sooner. Perhaps that would have...filled whatever void was there that was troubling him so much.”

“I guess we’ve all played our part, and now we hope for another chance to set things right. Stewart, I don’t suppose...and if this is inappropriate you can tell me to mind my own business, but...you haven’t.... He hasn’t been in your dreams the past few days, has he?”

Stewart shook his head. “I wish. Because then I could possibly reach him, tell him to come back to us.”

“His doctor has started talking about how if this goes past two, then three weeks, I need to start thinking about long-term care options, back home. I’m not ready to think about those things yet.”

“Nor should you be.” He reached across the table to give her hand a squeeze. It was a comfort he felt he could use as much as she could. “He’s going to come out of this, Barbara. Even if I have to somehow force my way into his dreams and drag him out kicking and screaming.”

Which wasn’t a half-bad idea...if he only knew some way to make it happen.

* * *

Taylor realized he wasn’t dead when he realized he was dreaming.

For an unknown amount of time, there had been nothing but a deep, deep sleep. Before that, a concert. Somewhere big. A vague recollection of going back to his hotel afterwards, getting ready for the party to follow, and then something going wrong.

But after that...nothing.

He was now aware of being in a room, a space that was quiet except for some irritating, constant beeping and far away, muted noises. He couldn’t tell if it was day, or night, just that the light was dim and everything surrounding him felt calm, peaceful.

He recognized, then, that he was in a hospital room. Sitting beside someone’s bedside and...oh.

Oh, hell.

That someone was _him_.

How was he looking down at himself like this? That never happened in his dreams. Could be he _was_ dead, then. That’s what they said could happen, wasn’t it? Floating above yourself, saying goodbye to your body and surrounding loved ones before you let go? There was Dave, laid out on a sofa by the windows. Dave looked tired, half asleep himself, flipping through a book. It might be for the best if he let go and allowed Dave get some rest at last.

He pondered if there was some way he could reach out to Dave in this incorporeal state, let him know it was okay. That _he_ was okay, one way or another. He glanced down, saw his hand holding sleeping-Taylor’s hand in bed, and something suddenly struck him.

His hand...wait...this wasn’t _his_ hand. This wasn’t his body. Wasn’t his head he was in. Taylor was looking down at himself because he was seeing this room, this place, through someone else’s eyes.

His soulmate’s eyes.

Which meant...it had to mean...that he was here? Wherever “here” was. He was _here,_ in Taylor’s hospital room, watching over him and waiting for him to wake up.

His soulmate was here, with Dave. With him. How? What the fuck had happened to him that he couldn’t remember? How had he ended up in this hospital, and how had his soulmate found him?

All Taylor had to do was wake up, snap out of this dream and he would finally know who it was. He couldn’t let go now, could he? Not when he could at last find out the truth. Possibly even start a new life together.

But oh, _fuck_ , that meant he was _here._ Taylor knew that somehow he’d fucked up something awful to have ended up like this.

Maybe booze. Probably drugs. Something about that seemed to flicker along the edges of his memory and that made Taylor fearful and anxious. Embarrassed—no, goddamned mortified by how stupid he’d been.

His soulmate, whomever he was, didn’t need a fuck-up like him in his life. No one did.

 _But he must know what happened, and he’s still here,_ Taylor thought. _So stop thinking about yourself for once, you idiot. Do this for him, if not for yourself._

_Do this for a future that might be uncertain but at least it’s a future. Not an ending._

_Do this so you don’t have to go through a do-over, another lifetime, trying to find him._

_Do this so you can finally know what happens next._

At that, he felt the dream slipping away from him as he returned to his own body, but not to sleep. He was in fact now wide awake.

And with a deep breath and his heart pounding, Taylor opened his eyes.

 

 

_*end*_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I'm horrible for ending the story right here. But rest assured there is a part two in the works... beatvegan would kill me otherwise.
> 
> Comments are always lovely and most welcome. And my thanks indeed if you simply made it through to the end of this fic. <3


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